


Moshing With Myself

by Gala_and_Elle, gala_apples



Series: Slantverse [10]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - High School, Bruises, Closet Sex, Confined/Caged, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gala_and_Elle/pseuds/Gala_and_Elle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is pretty much a genius; he's figured out how to fight himself. The Ties That Bind gives this context.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moshing With Myself

Frank was hard when he took the first swing, he was hard when Matt smashed him into the floor, and he’s hard now, in the back seat of Pete’s car. He didn’t stay hard the whole afternoon-- he doesn’t have some kind of medical problem-- but every time he thinks about it he gets another rush of blood and has to adjust himself. He sneezes and the seat belt pulls taut against his ribcage with the movement. His ribs scream in protest, and there goes his dick, again. Mikey doesn’t say anything sitting beside him, and Pete and Sisky probably can’t see it in the rear view mirror; he’s not that big. Still, it’s just a matter of time. One of his asshole friends is going to notice and smirk before the evening is out.

There’s only one reason he’s going to Ryan’s instead of heading straight home to jerk off a dozen times. That reason is obvious the minute Frank walks in the door, and Gerard goes from resting his head on Mike to sitting up straight. He even clears his fucking throat. The strategy is essentially to head Gee off at the pass. If he lets him lecture now, when he’s only known about the fight for a single period, if that, his speech will be stream of consciousness, disjointed, and short. If he gives Gerard time to stew, tomorrow at lunch he’ll have what’s essentially a bulletpoint list.

Sure enough, it meanders. Gerard starts off strong with questioning slants, then moves to bullies, then to violence, and sputters to a halt at power hungry doms that treat everyone like their subs. A few people seem to think it’s bullying, and he gets concerned looks from Spencer and Travis. But most are more occupied with tossing out fruit combinations than worrying about him possibly having been beaten up. Apparently Brendon makes a mind-blowing fruit smoothie, and once Sisky has a list he’s going to go get a handful of produce for Brendon to create with.

Frank shouts grapefruit half a dozen times, just to be heard. He probably won’t drink it if Brendon happens to make it. An entire shelf of the fridge at home contains different Slurpee cups full of different blends of smoothie. His dad has a weird obsession with fresh fruit; he wrote a college thesis on something like the effects of fructose post scening. Frank doesn’t know it exactly, since he tends to tune out when Dad talks about the good old days. Still, it’s nice to voice an opinion.

It’s easy to get distracted from Guitar Hero. The way it makes him hold his arms, he can see how he’s starting to bruise. Not a lot, it’s still nothing more than the faintest periwinkle. But they’re there and they’ll get bigger and blacker before they start to fade. It’s enough to get him hard again. When he fails Say It Aint So, he gives the guitar to Keltie.

He should wait until he gets home to get off. Not that there’s anything wrong with Ryan’s house; it’s not like he and Ray haven’t done stuff before. But what he does alone is noisy, and the sounds will attract attention.

He can’t wait. It’s less than five minutes later when he makes some excuse about going to the bathroom and practically sprints down the hall. Throwing himself at the vanity is a huge relief, pressure against his dick while at the same time letting the counter bite into his hipbones. The first time his aim is a little off. The second time is better. Fucking delicious, actually.

It doesn’t take long, but even without the noise, it would be long enough to be suspicious. His friends aren’t stupid. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t ask to use Ryan’s guest bedroom, they all know. No one says anything, not even Gee. Maybe he got it out of his system before. It makes it better, somehow, that they know.

By the time Pete and Sisky are ready to go, Frank’s ready to up the pleasure. He begs a ride and Pete nods his head for him to follow. He’s not on the way to Pete’s, but Pete doesn’t give a shit. If he minded driving Sisky would be doing it. As it is, Frank will be dropped off, then the other two will hang out all evening, Sisky will bike home around midnight, then be at Pete’s at eight to wake him up. Frank can’t imagine getting out of bed a minute earlier than absolutely necessary, but then it’s probably something Sisky considers necessary.

He shouts a hello as he enters the house, not bothering to see who’s actually home. Poking his head in the living room will almost undoubtedly end in some kind of argument, the issue depending on whether it’s Dad or Grandpa or both. Frank doesn’t have time for that right now. He just wants to get to his bedroom.

Most people wouldn’t consider a closet a sex toy or even equipment. Frank does. It’s not that a person can’t bruise themselves. There are shops full of toys, and thousands of websites, and Aguilera has a self-flagellation pamphlet. But it’s too methodical for him. He doesn’t want to build up the pain, he wants to be completely overwhelmed. The best thing he can do if he doesn’t want to provoke a response from someone else is to use his closet.

The procedure is the same tonight as any other night. Frank closes his bedroom door -he knows better than to lock it, you never lock the door when you’re self-scening- and turns on music. It’s not much of a sound barrier, but there’s something about The Offspring that makes his body gear up. It’s probably half conditioning, but it still works. He takes maybe five minutes to unhook all the hangers from the clothing bar and toss them onto the bed, a field of black on green sheets. The deliberate mess still isn’t as messy as when Gerard or Mikey have ‘cleaned’ their rooms, a fact which is equal parts funny and scary.

When the bar is clear he walks in the closet and slides the door closed behind him. It’s one of the good things about being short. He might get shit from relatives, and he might have to push past all the tall assholes in a mosh pit if he wants to actually see the band, but he doesn’t have to worry about cracking his head on the wardrobe bar. There’s a thin line between hurting yourself and damaging yourself, one Frank isn’t quite stupid enough to cross.

It would be nice to secure the door, but he hasn’t figured out a mechanism for it yet. When he gets his own place, an apartment after college, it’ll have a closet with doorknobs. Or maybe by then he’ll have been convinced by Mikey to join a club, and he won’t get off at home at all. For now the best he can do is tuck the sliding door into the wall and launch himself in the opposite direction, towards the back of the closet.

There’s no room to build up momentum, no room to do anything. Which, with the logical part of Frank’s brain, the part that doesn’t care about getting off, he recognises is good. If he can’t get any momentum, he can’t move hard enough to break the drywall. Still, it’s a decent impact. The cool drywall bashes right against the bruise on his hip. When Matt finally dropped him, he hit the floor hard. The bruise is about palm sized, and when it hits the wall it lights his slowly darkening leg on fire. He breathes in for a second, then throws himself against the opposite corner.

The more he crashes the hotter his skin get, and the hotter the air around him gets. He’s breathing his own discarded air, and just like when he goes down, it’s a struggle. The walls seem to close in on him. It’s nice. It’s more than nice, it’s fucking great. The walls are breathing, shuddering in and out on him like a sea of moshers. He’s getting dizzy. It’s impossible to say whether it’s the constant movement in blackness not letting him have a reference point, the lack of cool air, the endorphins that come with his body aching. Whatever it is, it’s a head rush. It’s the same symptoms of getting beaten, or at least close enough that he has to cling to the bar with one sweaty hand, panting, the other hand curled around his dick. If he kept going, kept smashing himself and thinking about Matt’s hands and knees and feet, he could probably come without jerking off. But he needs to touch himself, to connect to something in the infinite space of his closet.

Frank doesn’t get an icepack when he’s done. There are more sore places than not sore, and he doesn’t want to keep down any swelling. He does pour some of the premixed smoothie into a smaller glass, once he gathers enough energy to go downstairs. Enough banana to even out his system, enough ice cream and fruit sugar to make it taste good.

In the hallway, he passes his dad. Frank holds his breath, waiting for the comment. It’s oddly silent, and after a few eternal seconds Frank moves by him to climb the stairs. Either he didn’t hear the thumping or he’s choosing to not pick this battle. Frank doesn’t care. As long as he wasn’t interrupted his dad could have been busy with a giraffe in the living room.

The thing is, he reflects, sitting against his tv stand, not quite up for hanging up six weeks worth of merch shirts. The thing is, it’s not enough. With no one watching it’s not enough. There’s a difference between having an orgasm and being in ecstasy, and he can’t reach the second alone. It’s not how his slant works. Which means he’s only got one choice left. He needs to make this morning happen again.


End file.
